


Always on the Run

by ilyena_sylph



Category: Terminator (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilyena_sylph/pseuds/ilyena_sylph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has no idea how to deal with the things his foster family doesn't know or understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always on the Run

**Author's Note:**

> This fic couldn't have been written without Sharpest Asp(Merfilly) and Katarik, who've been encouraging me to finish it for... oh, four years now. 
> 
> My canon only includes _The Terminator_ and _Terminator 2: Judgment Day_.

Pasadena, California: 1993

Being inside a bank was still new enough to John that he was trying to turn in all directions, looking at the lines and the tellers and the vault off behind the roped pylons, the shine of the high-gloss floors and the sharp-pressed suits of some of the men standing in front of his new foster-mother -- never wanted anyone but _his_ mother, but they locked her away from him. The security guard in the cheap uniform had made him tense up, freezing barely inside the doors with every instinct he had telling him to turn around and get out until her hand had squeezed his shoulder and he remembered they kept telling him he didn't have to do that any more. He wasn't sure how much he believed that -- any kind of uniform was automatically the enemy, no matter where they were, that was the way it'd always been, but... 

His heart was beating a little fast. That wasn't good. He took deep breaths, trying to slow it down, settling into calm. 

He settled into the line with her, his new foster-dad with them, too. Behind him. John heard the door and turned -- and every nerve in his body strung wire-tight as he turned back around. Four men, in a group. Two had holdout pistols, one had -- a glance up into the fisheye mirror told him. Sawed-off shotgun, by his shoulders, under the long jacket it was too warm for, maybe a knife in those combat boots -- and the last, in a shoulder holster, another pistol if not two. 

Bank robbery. He looked up at his foster-mother and tugged at her hand. "We need to go," he said, keeping his voice low, trying to tell her that it was important with his eyes and face. But she was stupid, soft and civilian, and she didn't notice. 

"What's 'we', do you have a mouse in your pocket?" she asked, her voice laughing, and he bit into his tongue as he shook his head. "You're a big boy, the restrooms are right over there, go right on ahead." 

She didn't understand. He wanted to get her out, get the foster-father that had bought him a new bike out, but... making a scene would just spring the robbery earlier. He bit harder into the tip of his tongue and nodded, turning to trot off that way. He got past the nervous pack of men (amateurs, they were starting to get the guard's attention) before they paid any attention to him -- and promptly broke for the doors and the car outside them. He heard a yell of his name and didn't even look back. 

He was to the car before his foster-father got anywhere near him, and the man looked totally baffled that he'd stopped. 

"What in -- what _exactly_ do you think you're doing, young man?!" 

"Getting out of the bank before it gets robbed. They looked antsy, and I don't like being around stupid people with guns when I'm unarmed." 

They kept trying to get him to tell what they thought was the truth. He figured he might as well do it when it would work to his advantage. 

"What?" the foster-father, Jack, stared at him like he'd started speaking in Puerto Rican. "You're going to get right back inside with me and your mother -- "

"She's _not_ my mom, and I am not going back in there. You will have to knock me unconscious and carry me inside, and if you do that I am going to start screaming assault the next time the social worker comes, and you'll lose your kids." 

There're two others, younger than him but they'd been there a lot longer. They _did_ call Jack and Becky 'dad' and 'mom', and he could see it as Jack froze, staring at him. "There's no way that someone is about to rob the -- " 

The crack of a gunshot cut off Jack's words, and he turned pale and green all at once (like he'd just been shot, and John was more than a little offended at that) even as he turned to run back towards the doors. 

Damnit, he hadn't been close enough to grab him, either. Not that he had much chance of slowing down someone with easily three times his mass and almost twice his height, but he should have tried. He refused to go anywhere near those doors, and hopped up on the trunk of the car to watch what happened. 

Any group of robbers with sense would have secured the doors already. Preferably before the first shot was fired, but definitely only seconds after. This would tell him if they were complete idiots inside, or if they had enough brains, despite being jumpy, to get what they'd come for and leave again. 

Jack hit the doors and bounced off. 

Good. Enough sense, if not as much as they should have. 

That might mean that they had enough sense not to shoot _through_ the doors at the idiot currently banging on them. It would be tempting, in their place, but that would compromise their protection. It wouldn't be a smart move... but that was the thing about bank robbers. A lot of the time, they were dumb amateurs. 

"John, John! Get over here and help me! They've-- I don't know, looked the doors or something!" 

There was no way he was going anywhere near those doors, was Jack _insane_? 

He planted himself a little more firmly on the trunk of the car, crossing his arms. That at least got Jack away from the doors, jogging back towards him with a furious expression on his face. 

"Why won't you come help me with those doors?!"

John took it all back. It wasn't the robbers that were even faintly the idiots in this situation. It was Jack. "Because those doors are solid-steel framed, even if they are part glass. They're not going to move because you want them to -- but you're lucky they didn't shoot the glass to put you down before someone noticed you and called the cops."

Jack was still looking at him like he wasn't speaking English, and said again. "Why won't you help me get in?" 

"...because they have guns and I don't, Jack." He restrained the urge to add 'd'uh' with some trouble. "I saw four. That might mean five, but probably not, that's too many for a clean job in that small a space. Also because I know it won't work." 

"But Becky's in there!" 

"...I know. I tried to tell her we needed to leave. She wouldn't listen. Jack... Jack, listen to me. She's female. She's not normally hysterical. She'll probably be okay -- unless you do something else stupid and put her in danger." 

That was a few words too far, he realized, too late to do anything about it. The fear and helplessness was starting to turn into anger -- at the situation, at himself, at everything, and John took a slow breath. He had to try to get him calmed down. "Jack," he said, reaching out, "listen to me, okay? You can't help her by playing hero. Even if you could get in there, you'd just die." 

"And how do _you_ know all this?! You're eight!" 

He'd seen that coming, known it was there in the anger under Jack's fear -- and he knew the next line that was coming and took it for himself. He cocked his head to the side a little, looking up at Jack from under his hair. "Because my mom's insane, remember?"

He saw Jack deflate, saw the anger start to swing back to helplessness, and the clock in his head said that the cops were late. They should have been on-scene by now. "Must have gotten all the tellers' hands up fast enough to not hit the call switch," he muttered, and Jack blinked. 

"What?" 

**Civilians**. Why was he stuck dealing with so many civilians that didn't understand anything? He sighed a little and answered the question. "The p -- cops, they should be here by now. That they're not means that the crew in there kept the tellers from getting to their emergency buttons. That's hard. And it's a good thing." 

"What do you _mean_ it's a good thing! We _want_ the cops to show up when people are trying to _rob banks!_ " 

Almost everyone he'd ever known would disagree with that, and he stared at Jack for a few seconds, making sure he'd actually heard those words right. Trusting cops, trusting the government -- he was standing by the decision that Jack was completely crazy. He shook his head. "Not now. Now that would mean a hostage situation, and Becky might get hurt. By them, or by the cops." 

He didn't let Jack interrupt him, even though he could see the protest that the police wouldn't hurt his wife in his eyes. "The best thing is for them to just get what they want and get out -- _without_ seeing us. So how about you unlock the car and we get in? It won't be very long, now. They shouldn't be much longer." 

They needed concealment, fast, because they had no cover out here. Now if only he could get that through Jack's head. 

Thankfully -- and surprisingly -- Jack did listen, and he unlocked the car. John wasn't sure where the sudden good sense had come from, he just slid onto the floorboards of the car while he could and stretched out. Jack got in, too, and even pulled the door shut. At least it wasn't high summer, just late spring. Unpleasant, but not dangerous. He reached up, tugging at Jack's arm. "Lie down," he said, "you don't want to be seen." 

"This seems cowardly," Jack said, even as he laid down, and John bit into his lip instead of his tongue, this time. "Like we're leaving her to die." 

"Bank robbers don't normally want to kill people, Jack," John said, wanting to make the man calm down. "They want money. Maybe they want to scare people, but mostly they want money. Murder means a long, long rap, way worse than theft. 

"Now, if it goes to a standoff, a hostage situation -- then I can't predict what's going to happen at all. But right now, every second we don't hear sirens is a good one for Becky." 

Jack stared at him, baffled and angry, but he nodded after a few seconds. 

He laid still, waiting, listening to the noise of the street. Normal, so normal. Birds, cars going past. Still no sirens. They really had managed to block the tellers. In -- seven minutes, the clock in his head said -- he heard four doors open and close, almost at once, three, maybe five parking spaces down, and a big-block engine turn over smoothly. No squealing brakes, no over-revving engine, just the sound of a car pulling back out of the spot to drive away. 

Good wheelman. John lay still for another ten seconds before he sat up, lifting up to look towards the building. One door still stood open, and John breathed a quiet sigh of relief. "Okay. They're gone." 

He no more than had the words out when Jack was up and out of the car, racing back towards the bank. John followed him out of the car, sure it would be cooler outside than in, even though he wasn't about to go anywhere near the bank itself. 

They didn't come out. 

Seconds, minutes ticked away, and they still hadn't come out. His skin was starting to crawl with tension, his heart pumping a little faster, pushing adrenaline into his blood -- and John flinched, hard, dropping down to sit against the tire on the curb while the sirens blared in his ears. The cops were coming, why weren't they _out?!_

They only had... maybe a minute left, with how close the sirens were now. Why weren't they... 

The bottom dropped out of his stomach like he was in a chopper hitting turbulence, and he swallowed against the sick taste in his mouth. They weren't going to come out, not until they'd been "good citizens" and talked to the cops, tried to "help" -- as if they could. As if they paid any attention at all to anything outside of what mattered to them. 

They weren't bad people, John told himself, again. Becky was sweet, with a little bit of steel under it, and Jack was nice, at least when he wasn't scared... and they were _people_ , not metal. They mattered. They were trying to take care of him, he knew that. 

But they were waiting to talk to the cops. 

\-- were they going to make him? 

Was this going to turn out to be like when they'd taken Mom down, when she'd gotten careless and sold out? Hours and hours of people in uniforms talking to him, trying to play nice while they tried to get him to give up Mom's secrets and caches? 

No. No, no way. 

John slid back into the car, raided the ashtray and center console for change -- bills, even, easy money -- and got back out. He shut the door easy, as he saw the first black-and-white come around the corner, and he jogged towards the nearest shop, walking in easy. 

He didn't have much, and without a decent pack he wouldn't get to Enrique or any of the others, but if he waited until the cops were inside and started back towards the house, he'd be there before they were. Maybe having _not_ totally run away would convince them not to call the cops to talk to him... 

...and maybe he'd wind up in a different foster home for scaring them. 

Either way, he'd have time to figure out how to deal with people that thought that cops were okay instead of dangerous.


End file.
